“Ivy.”
Armand’s voice shook me out of my trance. I gave him a quick head nod.
“I can see…hear that you have a great deal going on, so I appreciate you taking a few minutes to hear me out.”
I’d already been waiting for him to speak for about ten minutes. But I wasn’t going to nitpick. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
He lifted his chin a couple of inches higher and took in a deep breath. “Many years ago, when I was stationed in Italy—”
“Holy shit, Ivy, you won’t believe the crap spewing out of this woman’s gut. It’s not human.”
I looked blankly at Cristina as I processed Armand’s first few words. His time in Italy. Was he about to share what we’d read about in the letters? Would it be the same story?
“Cristina, I don’t know what to say? Is she dying? Is she puking up blood?”
“No, nothing like that. She’s just… Well, it’s nasty.” She paused, caught the expressions on our faces. “But I can deal with it. Just had to share. Later.”
She scooted back into the bathroom.
“Sorry. Please continue,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “It had been nearly a year since I’d been back home. I missed my family. Zahera was still quite young, four years old, I believe. Maybe once a month I’d be able to speak to Simone or Zahera by phone. We communicated by letters mostly.”
He paused a second, and a panicked thought hit me. Did he know that I had taken possession of the mound of letters from Zahera’s condo? I held my breath, waiting for his next words.
“Simone was a lovely writer. She sometimes wrote me poems.” He tapped his chest. “They were really quite meaningful. She was an amazing woman.”
“Your daughter says the same thing.”
“Ivy, I was targeted by the KGB, the Soviet Union.”
I nodded, then realized I shouldn’t know this information. So I put on my astonished face. “Wow. That sounds pretty serious.”
“It was. They were very careful in how they tried to draw me in. A local bartender befriended me. I knew he was from Eastern Europe, but we clicked, you know. He knew a lot about football…what you call soccer. And we became friends. Or so I thought.”
He walked a few steps toward the window where only a dim light illuminated the water fountain. I saw no birds nearby. It was as if every living thing other than the four of us had vacated the premises.
“What do you mean?”
“His name was Anton Kovalchick. He was a Soviet spy, with the KGB. One night he drugged my drink, and I awoke next to another woman.”
I made my eyes go wide. “Did you…?”
“Apparently so. They had pictures. I was devastated.” He looked off, as if shame had temporarily gained control of this larger-than-life figure.
“What did you do?”
“At first, I just returned to the base and went about my job. I worked in the communications group. I knew I’d committed a horrible act, even if it was a setup. But it only got worse. On my next time off base, Anton found me and confronted me, saying I could be a great asset for the Soviet cause. He said my family would be taken care of, said I could make a lot of money if I would begin giving him confidential information.”
“So he wanted you to be a…”
“A spy. Kind of a double agent.”
“So, not to defect.”
“No.” He paused. “Why would you say defect?”
I almost put a hand to my mouth to stuff the words back in. Dammit. He had used the term “defect” in his letter to Simone. Could he read my mind? I hoped not. “I don’t know. It just seems like a logical thing. I guess I don’t know what exactly you did in your role with the Army.”
The toilet flushed again, and he shifted his eyes in that direction for a moment, then back to me. “I oversaw operations on confidential communications between US military leadership in Europe. It was essentially using what we call the Internet today. The type of information in those communications was highly classified, and could have exposed names of key people doing work for us in the Eastern Bloc, as well as divulge military strategies of the US and our allies. Remember, this is before the wall came down and the Soviet Union broke up.”
“They didn’t think about giving you the type of security protection that they would a general or someone on the receiving end in those communications?”
“Times were different back then. We were IT grunts, at least in their minds.”
“So, what happened? I mean, you did continue to serve in the Army.”
“At first, Anton tried the softer approach, using enticements to draw me over while subtly bringing up the affair and the photos. He didn’t demand anything; he told me to take my time.”
“Did you not go to your boss and tell him?”
He pressed his lips together. I could see he didn’t enjoy being interrogated, but he didn’t tell me it was none of my business either. “I needed time to think it through.”
“You considered the offer?” I asked a little too quickly.
“No.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “I was trying to figure out what I could do. How to get myself out of that mess. How to keep my wife and family safe, out of any scandal, and yes, to save my reputation within the Army.”
“And?”
“I did something I’m not proud of, but it allowed life to continue. And for that I have no regrets.” He brought his arms behind his back.
What was that? He was going to end his story there? Not if I could help it.
From my standing position, I leaned over and planted my hands on the table. “I’m glad you have no regrets. But if you came here to tell me something that was pertinent to my investigation of Zeke, I haven’t heard it, unless I missed something. I need to hear the complete story.”
He held up a defensive hand. “I…I realize that. I just needed a few more seconds.”
I gave him a slight nod.
“I had contacts within the Italian military. People I trusted.” He paused another second, swallowed. “I must say, I’ve never shared this with anyone on the outside.”
“Outside of your military contacts?”
“Yes,” he said. “And no one has heard the entire story, not the full truth.”
“I’m honored.” It sounded a bit sarcastic, but I couldn’t take it back. He ignored it anyway.
“I got my hands on some cocaine, and I planted it in Anton’s apartment when he wasn’t there. Then I gave my Italian military friends the tip. They passed it along to the Italian police, who were in the middle of a countrywide crackdown on all types of drug-related crimes. They arrested Anton.”
“Wow,” I said, standing straight up again. “You took quite a risk. Screwing with a KGB spy; planting drugs. I didn’t take you as a thrill seeker.”
“You are right. I’m not. I care for my family, my friends, our great country. But I was desperate to not lose all of that. To not lose my life.”
I heard water flow from the bathroom sink. I hoped Megan was cleaning up. Then a thought hit me, and I met his gaze. “If Anton was KGB, did the Soviet government get involved to keep him out of prison?”
He nodded. “I knew the Soviet government would step in—if only to keep him from sharing classified information. But I hoped it would send a message. As it turns out, the Italians played hardball. He spent four months in prison as they haggled over what they wanted in the trade deal.”
“Trade?”
“In international politics, when one country identifies a spy, usually they will allow that person to return to their homeland, but only if that country offers something in return. It could be releasing prisoners, paying off debt, changing a hardline stance on a particular political topic. There are a million ways spy trades are made.”
“So you succeeded?”
He looked down for a moment. “In some ways,” he said, his voice pulled back a degree. “In the middle of all this, I had to tell Simone. I did so through a letter. And in
her response, I could see she was devastated. And it crushed me.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
“But your marriage survived.”
“It did. All because of her ability to forgive.”
“So why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because of Anton.”
I tilted my head.
“I’ve not heard anything from him in years. Yet, I’ve always wondered if he was watching me, waiting for the right opportunity to ruin my life.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. It’s just this sense of pending doom. Perhaps my guilt is still heavy in my heart, even after all the years.”
A blue vein snaked down the middle of his forehead. This typically rugged man was anything but rugged right now. He took in a breath and continued. “With the fall of the Soviet Union, everyone was a free agent. People like Petro Udovenko began to create mini empires, and authorities didn’t have the resources to stop it. On top of that, the whole system was corrupt. Still is, I think. It’s more fractured with the former Soviet countries trying to maintain their own sovereignty. But from what I’ve read, corruption inside many of those countries, including Russia, is rampant. People trade information for power. That’s always been the case, I suppose, and because of greed and paranoia, I wouldn’t expect that to change any time soon. I don’t know. It just seems like bad people tend to cross paths eventually. It’s possible that Udovenko and Kovalchick could be connected. And if they are, I wanted you to be aware of my past.”
He did not look away in the ensuing silence. I didn’t either. Thankfully, there were no toilet flushes or gagging sounds to interrupt the sinking-in of his words. I could see how difficult it had been on him to relive that time in his life, when he wondered if he or his family would survive.
“Thank you for sharing this, Armand.”
“I’ll do anything for Zahera. I love her with all of my heart. She’s all I have.” He wiped his hand across his eyes and released a breath. “I just need to know if Zeke is clean, if Zahera will be safe going forward. I won’t be around forever, and I just need to know that she’ll be cherished.”
Now I was the one tearing up.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ve actually tried reaching her a few times today. She’s not responding to my text messages.”
Probably because she was lost in Zeke’s eyes in Toronto. But maybe she didn’t want her father to know, so I stayed mum for now.
I heard someone clearing their throat. I turned to see Cristina waving a hand. “She’s finished hurling, only because there’s nothing left to throw up.”
“Good, I guess. Is she feeling better?”
“I think so, but she’s uh…” She bit down on her lip, glancing inside the bathroom. “She’s kind of nasty right now.”
“We need to get her to my place. Did I hear you say you volunteered to help?”
She spread her arms. “Huh?”
“Good. Thanks.” I gave her a wink.
32
By the time we made it outside, a dense fog had draped the city. I couldn’t see the top of the five-story building next door. The nearest streetlight flashed on and off—mostly off; it was about to fail altogether—and the periods of darkness lasted longer, making visibility extremely poor. There was a stillness in the air, and only an occasional rumble of a pickup with no muffler passing by on a nearby cross street.
Megan was worthless. She’d essentially passed out, waking up every few seconds to mutter some type of derogatory comment. Armand had hung around to offer his assistance in getting her to my car parked on the curb across the street.
Cristina locked up the office as Armand and I each grabbed one of Megan’s arms, helping her to walk...actually, more like slide along. I grumbled to Armand, “Ready?”
Before he could respond, Megan came to life. “Hell no. I want to lie down right here and take a nap.” Her body went completely limp. She dropped a foot or so before Armand and I recovered and pulled her back up.
“You think it might be easier to get a pole and tie her arms and legs to it?” Cristina had just pulled around in front of us. She was carrying our laptop bags as well as supplies for the road trip to my apartment: paper towels, a barf bag, bottled water, a package of wipes, and a box of tissues.
“You want to treat her like a wild hog?”
She shrugged and accidentally dropped the water. She picked it up before it rolled too far away, and then walked across the street to unlock my two-door Civic. Other cars were also parked along the curb.
“Let’s go.” Armand and I took two steps, and then the area went dark again. I could barely see Cristina on the other side of the street.
“Hey, Cristina, do you think you could break out your phone and shine some light for us?”
There was nothing extra-large about Megan, but with her offering no assistance, keeping her body upright wasn’t easy, even with Armand on the other side.
“Hold on,” Cristina said. I heard keys drop to the concrete.
“Come on,” I said to Armand. We dragged Megan a few more steps. One of her shoes slipped off. Armand stopped and tried to reach down to pick it up without dropping her.
My whole body broke out in a sweat. “Just leave it. Cristina can get it.”
“Right,” Armand said.
We scooted a few more steps, then Megan’s eyes popped open.
“What’s wrong? Please don’t tell me you’re going to throw up again,” I said.
“Keep her away from me,” Cristina called out. The streetlight flashed on for a couple of seconds. Cristina was standing next to the open driver’s side door. And then it went dark again.
“I want my shoe,” Megan said, trying to turn her head around. “Those shoes are all I have from home.”
“Cristina can get it,” I said, trying to keep the momentum moving toward the car.
She began to whimper. “I’ve got nothing. No Annie, no Carlos, nothing from home. I only want my shoe, dammit.”
“We’ll get your shoe, Megan. We just need to get you in the car, okay?”
She didn’t respond, just wiped her face and sniffled. We kept moving forward. Ten feet away from the car, I could see Cristina at the door, pushing up the front seat. I said, “No way we’ll be able to squeeze Megan into the back seat.”
“You should have a four-door car,” Cristina said.
“Not happening in the next five minutes.”
“You could just push her in.”
“Nice. She is our client, remember.”
“It seems like we’re babysitting a little kid.”
“Shh. She could hear you.”
Megan’s head slumped forward, and she released a loud snore.
“How much did she have to drink?” Armand asked.
“No clue,” I said. “Let’s take her to the other side of the car and put her in the front passenger seat.”
The streetlight flashed on for a second, and then turned off just as I stepped toward the curb. My foot clipped the side, and I began to fall. I caught myself with my other hand, but Megan’s weight slammed my knees to the concrete.
“You okay?” Armand asked, lifting her back up as I got to my feet on the sidewalk.
“Bruised, I’m sure, but I’m fine.”
A moment later, a cone of light shone on us. I looked to Cristina, who was angling her phone in our direction. “Thanks for coming through after we’re already here.”
“Sorry.” With sweat now dripping off my face, we made it to the car. Cristina helped get Megan’s feet inside.
“Where’s my shoe?” Megan said, suddenly awake.
“I’ll get it.” Armand scooted away.
“Thank you.” I said, leaning over to try to get the seat belt fastened.
An engine revved so loudly I jerked my head up, hitting it on the ceiling. Tires squealed and a breath caught in my throat. The roar was on top of us in a single heartbeat. I blinked, then the streetlight flashed on; in the mi
ddle of the street, Armand had started to stand up. Before he could take a step, a pickup mowed right over him. I could hear his body crumple—a sickening series of muffled thuds, as if he were nothing more than a cardboard box. The truck screeched away, and the street went dark again.
Two screams. It was me and Cristina.
I ran around the car just as the streetlight flashed on again. Armand’s body was a mangled mess. He had to be dead.
33
It was dusk, the sky was gunmetal gray, and a thick humidity choked off the oxygen.
This was my first Muslim funeral. There were things about it that were different than what I was used to. In many respects, though, it was similar to most other funerals I’d attended—full of heart-wrenching emotion.
Zahera had decided to only have a ceremony at the gravesite, bypassing a service at the mosque with which her father was associated. Zahera had told me he’d rarely attended services in the last several years since her mother’s death. And Zahera herself wasn’t exactly on a first-name basis with the Imam, which was why she’d customized the event for what was best for her.
For that, I was thankful.
The mood was somber, but respectful. I heard sniffles throughout the crowd positioned around the gravesite. I was told that not everyone in attendance would have known Armand. Apparently, the death of someone in the Muslim faith was not just a loss to the family, but a loss to the community. From my vantage point, I saw a diverse cross-section of people. A few women wore head scarfs, but many of the women were dressed like I was, a black dress that fell below my knees. There were men and women wearing military fatigues, while others arrived in Wrangler jeans. The sheer number of people was probably the most shocking aspect. I guessed we were surrounded by at least three to four hundred folks. Maybe more.
Zeke and I flanked Zahera, who stood as still as a statue, staring straight ahead, a pair of large sunglasses covering most of her face. I’d yet to see a tear trickle down her cheek at the funeral, but plenty had been shed since I’d spoken to her the night before. When I first shared the horrific news, I’d heard no response. I wondered if I’d accidentally disconnected the call. Then, Zeke jumped on the line and said she was in shock. Later, she called me back, and we cried together.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 40
